


Fitting Together Our Broken Parts

by piperholmes



Category: The Greatest Showman (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Love, Multichapter, Phillip x Anne, Post Movie, Racism, Slightly Naughty, Some Fluff, Some angst, Some comfort, inter-racial marrage in 1888, phillip trying to convince anne to marry him mostly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-02-25 21:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13222065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piperholmes/pseuds/piperholmes
Summary: Phillip asks Anne to marry him...a few times. Phillip has to learn it isn't as easy as he thinks it is and Anne has to be willing to believe that hope can be powerful when built on love. This will be in a few parts.





	1. The Release

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure of the timeline but I am going with 1888 since that is the year Zac Efron used in an interview. I have researched marriage laws for New York in 1888 so I am trying to make this as accurate as my amateur research can make it. This isn't beta'd either so I apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> Thank you so very much for the support for my first story Costumed! It has been incredible. I hope you enjoy this one as well!

The first time he asked her to marry him it had been a bitterly cold, quiet night.

The snow had fallen heavily on New York, creating a glimmering, soft, silver wonderland that would be a sludge of brown by mid-morning as the busting city came to life. But for now, as the moonlight fought for prominence against the street lamps, there was a stillness and beauty that defied the biting chill.

The circus sat silent for once. 

No crowd pushed for entrance, no one willing to ford the flakey powder that buried the city. It was easier to stay at home, warm by the fire, and pretend. Pretend to believe that the ephemeral world around them offered a sense of contentment. No one was fooled by the soft, delicate nature of the icy, deadly blanket they were all settled beneath, however, and so there was no audience to entertain.

It wasn’t often the performers got a night off so many had gathered together in small groups, around fires, playing cards, drinking, singing, laughing, anything to help stay warm. 

W.D., however, sat silently, ignoring the glare from Lettie.

“Let it go,” the older woman advised. “There’s nothing that’s going to stop the boy from loving her.”

He scowled, but said nothing.

W.D. had, in the beginning, argued with his sister, warned her against spending more time with the young man. A young man who knew more privilege and freedom than either of the acrobats had ever dreamed of enjoying. He feared for his sister. He feared what such an association might do to her. What the world might do to her. What the dissidence of two different understandings might do to her. But in the end, he gave up. He’d seen the look in her eyes. The same look when she let go of the safety of the bar and flew with courage and skill above the danger below. She was used to life without a net.

None of the other performers spoke about it to him. They left him stewing when his sister would disappear into Carlyle’s office, or when the ringmaster would take her to places that professed to beauty. To W.D. such beauty was counterfeit, hiding the ugliness behind diamonds, because beauty, true beauty should be available to all, not to those of a certain skin color and wealth. Anne would never see such beauty but on the arm of an affluent white man, and W.D. struggled with the happiness he felt for his sister to experience such a world and the heartbreak at knowing the price she paid.

His forced his gaze away from the office above them, finally giving into Lettie’s attempts to engage him in a game of Cinch. 

He just hoped his sister knew what she was doing.

Phillip sat at his desk in his office, reviewing accounts, grateful for the fire roaring in his small cast-iron stove, the smoky scent of the burning wood covering the oft pungent aroma of elephants and zebras. He’d wondered at the idea of expanding his space, but knowing how hard it was to fight against the cold had always deterred him. For now, especially as Anne sat so near him, her legs crossed beneath her on the cot he’d set up in his office for those nights when he wouldn’t make it home, he knew he’d never give up this tiny space for anything bigger. 

Phillip leaned away from the account logs, tired of adding and subtracting and feeling like it always came up short, and just watched her. Sometimes that was all they could do. The nightly performances were exhausting, and it was enough to just be together, silent. Anne would often fall asleep on his cot as he worked into the wee hours. Her body aching from exertion. He’d eventually slid up alongside her, pulling her tightly against him so he’d have enough room, then fall into a dead sleep. Other nights they would sit and talk, legs pressed against each other, fingers entwined. They listened and shared. Exploring worlds neither could imagine; her wonder and amazement at the places he’d been, the people he’d met, the life he’d lived, his awe and adoration at the cruelty she’d endured, the fights she’d survived, the family she had created.

It seemed impossible, like two stars forever trapped in one orbit, destined never to touch. Yet, somehow, they’d broken free and fallen together.  
He watched her now, as she sat with her eye close, her arms moving to music only she could hear, dreaming up some new routine. Her face free of any paint, hair lose about her shoulders, looking younger than either of them felt.

He felt happy, and warm, at home.

Without much thought he simply said, “Marry me.”

His voice sounded rough and gravely from disuse, the deep tones almost difficult to hear but he saw her arms freeze before lowering as her eyes opened to meet his.  
She looked at him.

He pushed away from his desk, moving to kneel in front of her, his hand coming to rest against her knee.

“Marry me,” he repeated.

Her brow lowered as her lips pressed together. 

“Anne,” he whispered, his eyes unwavering from hers.

They sat like that, wordlessly looking at each other, before she leaned forward, her hand cupping his face, pulling him gently towards her until her lips met his. Again, and again, her lips pressed, welcoming him, deepening the kiss. One hand slip to the back of his neck, her fingers burying themselves into his hair, the other hand fell to his shoulder, then chest, then beneath the brown jacket he’d yet to shed. 

She felt the warmth of his body, and delighted in the way his breath hitched against her lips when her fingers pulled his white-button up from the waist of his pants before slipping beneath his undershirt, her chilled fingers connecting with the heat of his skin.

They had kissed like this before, engaging in the prelude of a deeper connection, but Phillip always stopped them before too many clothes had been removed. 

“I won’t ruin you,” he’d swore. “You are more to me than one night.”

Her love and fear of him had grown with that promise. She’d loved him for how he loved her, but she knew that there was no true hope in the world allowing them to be together the way Phillip dreamed.

She used her weight to leverage him up, forcing him to fall forward onto her and the cot, her lips never leaving his.

“Anne,” Phillip warned, his hands pressing against the cot, surrounding her, pushing his face away, his breath panting against her face.

“Shh,” she soothed, beginning to pepper his face with small kisses before slowly moving to his jaw, then just below his ear, until she was gently sucking at the skin of his neck.

She felt a low moan begin in his chest, and knew he’d fight harder to pull away.

Her leg came up, wrapping around the back of his thigh, pulling him more fully on top of her.

“Don’t,” she pleaded when she felt him stiffen. “Don’t pull away from me.”

She had whispered the words into his ear, her cheek now pressed tightly against his. She could feel him against her where she cradled him between her legs.

“Make me your wife.”

Phillip’s head snapped back, blue eyes colliding with dark brown, both searching, both pleading, both hopeful.

With a groan, he allowed his weight to settle more fully against her, his lips meeting hers with a fervor neither had been willing to express before this moment.

They had worked to remove clothes, moments of laughter merging with the passion. It was awkward and tender, learning and exploring, embarrassment and pleasure delicately interwoven.

He’d been gentle and careful, and she’d teased him. 

Both did a poor job hiding their nervousness, and an even worse job at keeping quiet.

Phillip laughingly shushed her, claiming his fear of W.D., until Anne scolded him for mentioning her brother to her at such a time, then promptly rolled her hips in such a way that Phillip could only swear loudly.

And nothing could be done about the squeaking protest of the bed bearing their weight.

Afterword, after they had shyly helped each other cleaned up, as they lay naked, tightly wrapped together beneath the old blanket Anne had brought to him long ago, claiming if she was going to fall asleep in the office the least he could do was have a soft blanket, both breathing hard, hearts pounding against each other, finding a perfect rhythm, Phillip kissed her brow.

“You are going to marry me, right?”

She lifted her head, her chin resting against his chest, a small, sad smile on her lips. She leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth before resting her head back against his heart.

“We already are.”

He wanted more. Wanted her to give him a clear answer, but he knew that was all she would say tonight. He knew because he knew her, body and soul.

Because he loved her.

Yes, they were married, their vow to each other sealed tonight, two becoming one.

But Phillip was determined to tell the world.

He would marry his wife one day.


	2. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When it is dark enough, you can see the stars." --Ralph Waldo Emerson
> 
> But first the sun must set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support for chapter one. The comments and likes and messages have been incredible. This chapter turned slightly longer than I originally planned but hopefully you like it!

The second time he asked her to marry him had been around the stale stench of beer on his breath and the dried blood that clung to his lip.

The pair had awoken, shivering in the pale light of dawn. They’d both slept through the night, no one waking to add a log to the stove, and the paltry heat coming from the dying embers wasn’t enough to keep the cold at bay.

Philip threw back the covers, colorful language breaking free as his skin met the chilled air. 

Anne groaned, curling her naked body tightly under the covers, before laughing at the ridiculous way Phillip hopped across the room, unmindful of his own nakedness as he attempted to keep his bare feet off the cold floor.

He scrambled to where their cloths had been left in a pile, riffling through until he found his pair of trousers. As he bounced dramatically into the clothes he threw Anne a withering look which only prompted more laughter.

“I’m glad you find this all so amusing,” he commented, his normally deep voice made all the more gravely by sleep.

“Just hurry! I’m starting to get cold,” she answered.

“You’re starting to get cold?” he questioned, his incredulity only adding to her amusement. 

He responded by grabbing up her robe and unceremoniously tossing it towards her. She hurried to slip it on, not willing to be out from beneath the lingering warmth of the covers  
for longer than necessary.

Phillip tugged on his white undershirt, ignoring the cold that clung to the fabric, then moved to the stove. He hoped the embers held enough warmth as he knelt before the small furnace. The door gave a whine as he pulled it open, gently blowing air against the near darkness and felt a moments relief at the gentle orange glow that answered.  
He quickly fed some old newspaper into the metal beast and blew some more until the edges of the paper caught fire. With patience he added more kindling, the growing heat a welcome respite. Soon he had enough flame to add the bigger log, and as soon as he knew the fire wasn’t smothered by the weightier wood, he shut the door and dashed back into the bed.

Anne, who had been watching him in silence, not entirely sure on the protocol of the morning after, immediately stretched out to make room for him.

She couldn’t help the yelp of discomfort as he slid beneath the blankets.

“Your feet are so cold,” she said in response to his questioning look. 

Phillip laughed. 

“My apologies Miss Wheeler, that my feet got so cold trying to build you a fire.” His sardonicism was lost in his playful tone, and Anne blushed.

“Carlyle,” she said simply.

“Yes?”

“No, Carlyle. Mrs. Carlyle,” she corrected.

Phillip’s smile grew more genuine as he pulled her into his arms, settling them both beneath the covers.

“My apologies, Mrs. Anne Carlyle,” he whispered against her hair.

They both lay quietly, fingers wrapping and unwrapping in a slow, lazy dance, until Phillip’s fingertips rubbed a smooth circle around her ring finger.

“We’ll get a ring today.”

She nodded her head against his chest, too much joy filling her mind to leave room for a verbal response.

“My wife,” Phillip said, seeming to practice the phrase, letting the words find a place between them. “My wife.”

Again, the silence returned until they both spoke at once.

“Is it enough—”

“I’ll have to get used—”

“Sorry—”

“Sorry—”

The pair smirked as they each apologized, their words once again coming out on top of each other.

Anne had lifted her head to be able to see his face and Phillip took the chance to slide his fingers into her hair, carefully moving the curly strands, tucking them behind her ear so  
he could better see her sleep-flushed face.

“Go ahead,” he directed gently.

“I was just saying that it’s going to take some getting used to…” she trailed off, her cheeks pinking further. “Being here, with you, like this.”

Phillips could no longer resist the impulse, and without any fanfare he pulled her to him and kissed her.

He loved the way they kissed.

They moved between quick and lingering, delicate and passionate, moving apart and coming together again and again.

Despite the stirrings in his body, he slowed their embrace, ignoring the small whimper of disappointment from his eager wife. He’d never truly wondered about Anne’s previous experience with men, last night merely confirming his assumption that she had never before experienced such intimacies. His understanding of the female anatomy was as limited as most men. He’d learned a few things from the naughty prints that the other boys had snuck into his boarding school, a few things he’d learned from personal experience with women who were willing to give him a private education, and a few things he’d actually learned from science classes. But one thing he’d had drilled into him from a young age was that a man’s wife was to be treated as a porcelain doll. 

He immediately felt his stomach tighten. He doubted Anne, a girl who flew stories above the ground regularly, would much care for such treatment. For a moment, he felt unsure what to do. He’d grown up with one type of marriage modeled for him again and again: 

Duty, expectation, wealth, prestige, reputation, obligation, unfeeling…cold.

Women with tight lips who bore children and passed them on to the nannies. Men who paraded their wives around in the light and neglected them in the dark in favor of  
mistresses who could be treated as toys.

It was a rare thing to see in his circles: love

Did he know how to be married for love?

Unknowingly his brow furrowed. 

Anne’s own brow lowered, surprised by the turn in the mood. 

“What? What’s going on inside that head?”

Phillip blinked at her before releasing a derisive humph. “I was just thinking that it’s going to take some getting used to, being here, with you, like this,” he repeated her words.

At her rye, disbelieving look, he laughed, happy to distract himself from his thoughts.

“I will ignore your implication that I, perhaps, am not without experience with woman, Mrs. Carlyle, and merely acknowledge that I have never been a married man. It’s different.”

Anne rolled her eyes and collapsed against him with a scoff. 

They both hid smiles.

They were warm and comfortable again, his fingers slowly moving back and forth, massaging her scalp and in the quiet, stillness of the early morning they began to drift off until Anne, sleepily, asked, “What were you going to say before?”

“Hmm?”

“Before,” Anne reminded. “When we were talking over each other.”

“Oh,” Phillip stalled, suddenly unsure whether the question needed asking. 

Is it enough?

He had wanted to ask her if it was enough. Enough to simply be married, to claim a common law marriage. 

He supposed he knew the answer.

Deep in his bones he knew the answer.

It wasn’t enough.

He knew she would say it was. 

But he knew deep in her bones she believed it wasn’t enough either.

“I don’t remember,” he lied. 

He felt her press her lips against his chest in a kiss, a simple acknowledgement, before they both slipped into slumber.

An unrelenting pounding on the door awoke them both a few hours later.

“Carlyle!” the unmistakable voice of W.D. Wheeler cut through the quiet. “Carlyle, you in there?”

The pounding continued and the pair scrambled to their feet.

Anne clutched her robe, feelings of shame and pride warring inside her.

Phillip looked at Anne, a promise and a warning, before moving to open the door.

W.D. didn’t wait before he barreled in. “Anne didn’t come home last night—”

He trailed off as he saw his sister.

His eyes flew between her and Carlyle.

There was no doubt what had taken place.

“W.D.”

But before Anne could finish what she was going to say, her older brother had Carlyle against the wall, his shirt tightly fisted.

“W.D.!” Anne tried again.

Carlyle said nothing, his blue eyes meeting brown. He could see W.D.’s jaw tighten, could see the anger, the disappointment, the heartbreak, in his eyes.

With a shake of his head he let Carlyle go. 

Anne ran to Phillip.

“W.D. please,” she begged, “He’s…”

“He’s what?” he interrupted, his voice tired. “He’s what Anne? You think he would have treated a white woman like this?”

At his remark Anne and Carlyle stiffened.

“He’s my husband,” Anne said firmly, standing taller. "He's family."

The fight seemed to drain out her brother. He stared at them, his shoulders sagging. “You damn fools.”

“W.D.,” Phillip started, “I…I’m sorry. I should have spoken to you first.”

“But you didn’t,” he snapped back. “You didn’t because you didn’t think you had to.”

As his words resonated, Carlyle felt his skin grow pink. His mind was plagued with his earlier thoughts. 

“You’re right,” he breathed, his arms going around Anne. “You’re right.”

He looked at Anne, saw the hurt and confusion in her face, before turning back to W.D. “I was raised in a world where your parents find a suitable girl, then you enter a months-long courtship where you never get to speak about anything important and you have chaperones watching your every move. Then your parents discuss the financial terms and you enter in an equally long engagement.”

“I would never have been allowed to kiss her, to touch her, to hold her, to…love her, as I have Anne.” His gaze moved back to the woman in his arms. “I would never have been allowed to feel as I feel for Anne.”

“I suppose a great many people are going to tell us that how we feel about each other, and what we’ve done is wrong.” Phillip looked again to D.W. “But maybe how they think and feel is what’s wrong. So we didn’t do things the way they’ve been done for centuries? Maybe it’s time to start changing things.”

W.D. sighed. “It don’t work that way Carlyle. And you both know it.”

Phillip nodded. “You’re right and maybe we are fools for believing otherwise, but I’ve learn that there are things worth risking everything for. But I am sorry. I should have shown respect for you and your love for Anne.”

“I just want her happy…and safe.”

“And I promise I will devote my life to ensuring those two things.”

W.D. didn’t know if there was much value in such a promise, but right now, as he looked at the set of his sister’s face, he supposed, it had to be. 

It wasn’t long before Anne had a ring on her finger and there was no question among the circus. She was Mrs. Phillip Carlyle.

She moved in with Phillip, a quaint two-story townhouse just down the block from the circus. It wasn’t a fifth of the splendor Phillip grew up in but to Anne it was a palace, and it was theirs. She gotten to buy fresh sheets, a beautiful quilt, and a dish set. 

She’d never owned dishes before.

She asked W.D. if he would go with her, they had two spare bedrooms, she’d told him, unable to hide the pride in her voice. 

He declined, but gave her a smile to soften his answer and thanked her for the offer.

The deep cold continued to plague the city and P.T. and Phillip were dipping into savings to keep the performers paid. And more than a few nights were spent at the Barnum home, the two men deep in conversation as they tried to find ways around the weather, Charity and Anne busy playing with the girls. 

Anne and Phillip had fallen into a domestic routine, nothing much to do then but be home together, reveling in the early days of marital bliss, when the newness, the excitement, the freedom, the happiness pervades all aspects of life. 

The little world they had created was a beacon of home amidst the cold of the world. And for a few weeks they were tentatively moving towards believing their unspoken fears, the ones they kept hidden deep, were unfounded.

And then the snow melted.

As the city emerged from hibernation, the crowds began pouring in, seeking the joy that had been smothered out by the long nights and unrelenting snow. The long hours and seemingly unending exhaustion returned. 

Two months had gone by and Phillip decided he wanted to do something special, something to remind them that they were young and something more than the circus.

He’d gotten the tickets for the Star Theatre. William H. Crane, the famed comedic actor was premiering in _For Money_. He’d yet to keep his promise to take her. He’d called in a favor with Lester Wallack, the theatre’s owner, and a man Phillip had gotten to know rather well when he was writing and producing plays, and gotten them a private box. 

Anne had been excited but Phillip could sense her hesitation, so he took her to buy a brand-new dress. He’d kissed her cheek and promised it wouldn’t be like last time.

And it hadn’t. 

They’d arrived, Anne in her pretty new dress, Phillip in his tails, to minimal fuss. They’d ignored the whisperings and looks as they made their way resolutely to the box. The ushers had hesitated, seemingly unsure what to do, but Phillip had stared at them in a way learned from years of privilege and wealth, and with mumbled apologies they had opened the door and shown them to their seats. 

As the mummering rose around them, women whispering behind their fans, craning to see into their box, men shaking their heads, Phillip had leaned over to Anne and whispered into her ear, “You take my breath away.”

With her hand tightly gripping his, the play started, a ready distraction to both the high-born and the those in the cheap seats. Comedy wiping away everyone’s problems for an hour.

Phillip’s attention had been divided; the play, Anne’s clear delight, and the occasional gaze from an audience member. He finally settled on watching his wife smile and laugh at the antics on stage.

When the intermission came, Wallack had slipped into their box.

“Carlyle,” he greeted.

Phillip stood, shaking his hand. 

“Wallack,” he met, then turning to help Anne to her feet. “My dear this is Mr. Lester Wallack, Wallack, my wife, Anne Carlyle.”

Wallack visibly faltered. “Uh…yes…of course, ma’am.” He inclined his head in her direction. “Can I speak with you a moment Carlyle?”

Phillip felt Anne tense, his own stomach dropped. “Of course.”

Wallack stepped outside the box and Phillip followed. 

“What are you doing Carlyle?” Wallack whispered harshly. “I had heard you’d fallen into that circus business, and I admit I hesitated when you asked for an entire box, but I never thought you’d bring a—”

“A what?” Phillip snapped.

Wallack took a breath, before lowering his voice further, “A colored girl.”

“Wallack,” Phillip warned.

“What were you thinking?” the older man charged. “Do you know how many complaints I’ve received?”

“Why?” Phillip pushed. “We aren’t hurting anyone. We’re just watching the play.”

Wallack rubbed his forehead in frustration. “I’m asking you to leave Phillip. It’s causing too much of a disruption. You know how this industry works. The wealthy pay my bills. You’ve brought me plenty of business in the past, and you know I appreciate it, you’re always welcome here, but if you want to see a play with her, next time, I’ll make sure you are where you can’t be seen.”

Phillip felt his anger bubbling, carefully contained through tightly pressed lips, and a stony gaze. “Can’t be seen? We’ll leave when the play is over.”

“Car—”

“Phillip?”

The two men turned to Anne, neither having heard her open the door. Wallack had the decency to look contrite.

“Anne?”

“I’m not feeling too well; would you please take me home?”

Phillip felt his heart fall, his body warring with the frustration and anger growing inside him. “Are you certain? You don’t want to stay for the end of the play?”

With the same grace she used to make flying above the ground seem effortless, she gathered her skirt and made her way towards them.

Turning to Mr. Wallack, she said, “Thank you very much for the opportunity to attend your theatre, Mr. Wallack. It truly was a dream come true.”

Phillip grabbed her hand, ignored the way it shook and looped her arm through his, and with one final scathing look to Wallack, led her out.

The lobby was crowded with people who had come out during the intermission, and Phillip pulled Anne closer to him as they made their way through the crowd.

“Disgusting.”

He felt Anne stumble slightly, his grip tightening as she found her footing.

“Disgraceful.”

“Indecent.”

The words filtered around them, tiny needles pricking their happiness.

He made quick work of getting their coats, seeming as if the woman had them waiting and ready for them, before leading them out into the night.

The cool air of early Spring did nothing to calm the feelings raging in Phillip. 

“Our carriage, now,” he barked to the surprised valet who almost dropped the cigarette he was holding.

Phillip was nearly shaking with suppressed outrage, as Anne stood calm and still beside him.

He was burning up with nothing to do. He wanted to rail at them. He wanted to say something to Anne. Nothing sounded right or worth the effort. He’d promised her it’d be alright.

He’d promised.

He helped her into the carriage.

“I’m sorry Anne.”

“Shh,” she stopped him, taking his hand into hers. She held them tight. “I enjoyed our time out together.”

Her words were quiet and cut him to the bone.

“Are you hungy? I know our dinner reservations aren’t for another hour but—”

“I’d rather just go home,” came her answer, and with a tired sigh her head fell to his shoulder.

They rode in silence until they reached their home. Phillip paid the driver and saw Anne into the house. 

“I think…I think I’ll go out for a little while, unless you need me here.”

His words brought her up short. 

“You’re leaving?”

“Just want to go out and get some air, unless you need me here.”

He was barely meeting her gaze, forcing his voice to be casual, a fake smile at the edge of his lips.

“Phillip—”

“I know Anne,” he answered her unspoken question. “I know, I just, I need some air.”

He pulled her to him slowly, ignoring her raised brow. He pressed his lips to hers. A light, gentle kiss that lingered like the last of the morning dew before the heat of the day. 

“I love you,” he breathed, pressing his forehead against hers, eyes closed tight. “I love you.”

And then he was gone. 

It was the first time in a long time that Anne had the evening to herself. She could feel her frustration and disappointment welling up insider her, fighting for escape. She feared, however, that if she gave in she’d never stop, so instead she ran upstairs, tore off the dress she’d put on with so much care and excitement earlier in the evening and pulled on one of her practice leotards. 

She would swing through the air until her muscles screamed, clinging to ropes until her hands burned, anything to distract her from the heartache in her soul.

Hours later she had come home, exhausted, sweaty, and dirty, and alone. She had hoped Phillip would turn up in the tent, kiss away her fears, and pull her back to their home. But there had been no sign of him since he’d left her.

After wiping off with a damp cloth--all she had the energy for--she pulled a nightgown over her head and climbed into bed, not even feeling the cold, tears staining her pillow.

She’d no idea how long she’d slept, the darkness of the house concealing any idea of time, but she could hear voices. One voice she could make out clearly.

Her husband.

Ignoring her tight muscles, she slipped from bed, and, quickly lighting the kerosene lamp, noiselessly made her way downstairs into the kitchen, the yellow glow casting shadows as she made her way into the kitchen.

“W.D.? Phillip?”

The sight before her left her confused and concerned.

Her husband was draped across her brother’s shoulders, clearly being held up by her brother’s considerable strength.

W.D.’s eyes met hers is a moment of understanding and embarrassment. 

“Anne!” her husband cried, then immediately looked contrite and in a much softer tone added, “Sorry, we’re not being loud so we don’t wake you.”

She stepped closer, the small lamp in her hand lighting Phillip’s face. Her husband’s lip was split and a purple bruise was already forming on his jaw, his skin pale and eyes red and glassy.

“What happened?”

“With what?” Phillip asked.

She ignored him, and looked to her brother.

“I found him outside McSorley’s. He was bad off.”

Anne could see for herself. His set of tails was gone and the sleeve of his white button up was torn, the collar half gone.

“Can you bring him upstairs?”

W.D. made quick work of getting the smaller man up and into their bedroom.

Phillip made sorry attempts at protest, insisting he was fine, which the siblings ignored. They weren’t unfamiliar with drunks.

W.D. got him in the bed then turned to his sister.

“You gonna be alright?”

She nodded, swallowing hard, fighting the urge to scream and cry and drown in her humiliation.

“We’ve the spare bedroom if you want to stay the night.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to be underfoot. I’ll just get back home. It’s not far.”

Anne could again only nod.

As her brother turned to leave, Anne called him. 

“I…thank you.”

The words struggled out.

Her quiet brother, her quiet, strong, brave brother, opened his arms and she ran to him. Her hold tightening, her way of communicating her appreciation and love.

“Please don’t judge him,” she begged softly. “Please. He didn’t understand, but he’s trying. I believe he’s trying.”

Her brother gave her a quick squeeze, his only acknowledgment of her plea, and with a muttered “Be safe” he was gone.

Phillip had watched them from where he lay on the bed, his gaze lazy and unfocused.

“I’m sorry Anne.”

She said nothing, moving to the cold pitcher of water, bringing it to the bedside before grabbing a cloth. She set them both down then moved to get his shoes off.

“Please Anne—”

She pushed him back down when he tried to get up.

“Be still,” she commanded, and he obediently fell back. His beautiful blue eyes watching her. Glassy and sad.

She got him out of his now ruined button up and got his suspenders off. His pants were salvageable but she didn’t think she had the energy to wrestle him out of them.

“Marry me Anne,” he breathed. The scent of beer on his breath, the dark red layer of blood dried, and crusty on his lips, and she felt her own lips ache in response as she pressed them tightly together, forcing a silence that nearly choked her.

“Please.”

She reached for the cloth, wetting it in the now chilly water. She carefully dabbed it against his angry skin, clearing away what evidence of his night she could. She had done this before, before when his angry skin needed relief from the burns.

“You’re used to getting what you want Phillip,” she whispered as she continued her ministrations. “Life with me means letting go of that. It means knowing your children will never have the chances and opportunities you had. It means—”

She stopped.

He was asleep.

He’d run through fire for her once.

As she watched him, saw what tonight had done to him, she hoped he was prepared to run through the flames all over again.


	3. The Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the continuance of their parents' rage,  
> Which, but their children's end, naught could remove,  
> Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;  
> The which, if you with patient ears attend,  
> What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the comments and the encouragement for this story! It means the world to me. I am sorry this chapter took so long. Now that the semester has started I have less time for writing, but I only have one more chapter left for this particular saga. I hope you enjoy this installment!

The third time he asked her to marry him he almost wished he hadn’t.

_He hadn’t meant to walk this far, at least that was the lie he told himself. He had found himself, entirely by accident, walking along the shining, clean, cobblestoned street that paved the way to so many of his childhood memories._

_He didn’t quite know how to feel about the welcoming sense of familiar that suddenly invaded his mind. The night had grown much colder, but even as the biting wind hit his cheeks, he paid it no mind. He could only replay what had happened at the theatre. He could only see Anne’s sad, forgiving eyes._

_He had no more room for cold._

_So he stood, staring up at the beautiful building he and his parents called home when they were in town. The stone structure, big enough to probably house the entire circus, looked deserted in the late hour, and if it weren’t for the lights on the stoop, Philip might have doubted they were even home._

_How many nights had he sat at the nursery room window on the third floor, watching and waiting for his parents to return home. How many times had he disobeyed his nanny, slipping out of bed to sneak downstairs and watch his parents and their friends as they dined together._

_Here he was again, on the outside, looking in._

_He thought at first, to go around back, enter through the kitchen door like he used to when he’d want to sneak back in after a night out with his school friends, but as familiar as it all felt to him, it wasn’t his home anymore._

_With resolve he approached the door, choosing to knock instead of ring the bell. He didn’t believe his parents to be abed but he also had no desire to alert the entire household of his presence._

_His second knock, much more forceful than the first, finally brought the desired result as the great door parted an inch._

_A pair of faded, aged blue eyes peeked through, guarded and suspicious, until enough of the meager light made it through the crack in the door._

_“Master Phillip?” the old man breathed, the dismay giving way to delight._

_Phillip couldn’t help the smile as he came face to face with the family’s butler._

_“Foster,” Phillip said by way of greeting, truly pleased to see him._

_As a child, Phillip had been intimidated by the man tasked with running the household, always wanted to please and never incur the wrath of the strict man in charge. When he’d been around 11, however, he’d gotten excited about something—what he couldn’t remember—and had come running through the house, slipping on the rug in the foyer. He’d careened into the side table, sending a prized vase crashing to the floor._

_Foster had come pounded his way from the dining room, where he’d been seeing to the table setting, blistering on about clumsy maids and footmen, vowing to have the job of whichever unfortunate had caused such a raucous._

_In a panic, Phillip had tried to gather up the broken pieces, cutting his hands in the process. And that’s how Foster had found him, tears on his cheeks and blood on his hands._

_With a tenderness Phillip hadn’t witness before, Foster had knelt beside him, taking his bleeding hands into his own._

_“Cheer up now young master,” he said simply. “We’ll get this cleaned up. You run downstairs and have Mrs. Gray look at your hands and tell her I said for Cook to get you a cookie.”_

_“But my father—” Phillip had whimpered out._

_“No mind. I’ll take care of it. Run along now like good lad.”_

_Phillip had known then he was safe._

_The face he saw now looked more tired than Phillip ever remembered seeing._

_“Are my parents home?”_

_Phillip didn’t miss the way the hunched shoulders winced._

_“I’m to tell you they’re not,” he said quietly, his eyes falling to the cement beneath their feet._

_Phillip’s smile grew sad. “I assumed.”_

_“You’re….well?”_

_The hesitantly spoke question cooled some of the ire that had found place in his soul._

_“I am. And how are you Foster?”_

_The older man just nodded again and again before turning away, “I’m sorry sir,” he said over his shoulder, “I’m not to admit you.”_

_Phillip could only smirk at the old man’s cheek; He’d not bothered to close the door behind him._

_Phillip pushed his way through, easily making his way around the slower man shuffling back through the hallway, catching his wink in the pale candle light, and the whispered, “In the study.”_

_On the rare evenings when his parents stayed home, or weren’t entertaining, they would sequester themselves in the study. These had been Phillip’s favorite nights as a child. Occasionally he’d been allowed to come down and stay with them. His father had taught him to play chess and his mother would read to him or let him help her play a round of solitaire. And on nights when they’d first arrived back to the city from their country estate Mrs. Gray would bring a tray of tea and clotted cream with the last of the summer berries or peaches. His parents would laugh and clap at the silly monologues he’d perform and he would revel in the attention._

_He now hesitated in the dimly lit hallway as the familiar smells of home wiped away the years, leaving him with the childlike nervousness as he stood outside the closed door._

_With a deep breath, he knocked._

_“Foster?” Came his mother’s voice._

_He carefully pushed open the mahogany doors and stepped through._

_“Who was at the—” His mother’s question died on her lips as her eyes met his._

_“Phillip?” she breathed._

_At her declaration, his father’s head flew up from the book he’d been reading._

_The pair stared at him in a shocked silence from their winged-backed chairs near the fire._

_“Phillip?” his father questioned, rising to his feet._

_“Sir,” he acknowledged out of habit._

_“What…what are you doing here?” his mother asked quietly._

_Phillip hadn’t moved from where he stood by the door. His fingers pressed against his palm, again and again as he waited for the words to come. For a moment all he could see was his mother’s face, and he hated the uncertainty he saw, but even more he hated the hope._

_He suddenly very much wanted to be home, his real home, his home with Anne._

_But he’d come here with a purpose and he wasn’t going to leave until he’d spoken the words that had stayed locked up._

_He stepped more fully into the room, the thick, plush, carpet beneath his feet absorbing all sound._

_“Mother,” he acknowledged, his tone gentle but firm. “Father, I’ve come to speak with you about Anne.”_

_His mother’s surprise and shock at seeing him, slowly turned to confusion._

_His father remained stoic and seemingly unmoved._

_“I know you don’t approve of my relationship with her, but I believe that if you took the time to get to know her, you would discover the same woman I know. A woman who is smart, hardworking, brave, kind, and too stubborn to admit when she’s scared.”_

_“Phillip—” his father interjected, a tired resignation present._

_“Father, please,” Phillip continued. “Please, I know what people say about Anne, about me, about us. I know what your friends would say. I know what society would say. But I’m asking you, please, don’t listen to them, listen to me. I am…I am happy,” he declared firmly. “I am happy. Happier in a way than I’ve ever felt before.”_

_“But Phillip,” his mother finally spoke. “Why? Why are you happy now? What did we do wrong? Did we not provide you with a fine childhood? Have we not shown you the world? Did we not send you to the finest schools? The grandest parties? Did we not encourage and support you?”_

_“Of course Mother,” Phillip answered, beginning to understand some of the hurt he’d seen before. “Of course. You and father have given me so much and I am truly thankful. I’m realizing I’ve gone far too long without expressing such sentiments. I should have said it before today. I should have said it often. I love you and am grateful for the wonderful life you provided.”_

_He saw his father’s eyes soften. The steely gaze that had been burning through generations of Carlyles, that had worked hard and won a place as part of New York’s elite, seemed unable to find purchase as father and son battled with suspicion and respect._

_“I should have said it before,” Phillip again confessed. “That’s why I came. I came because I want my parents to know me, to know my family, to know my wife.”_

_At his declaration his mother’s eyes closed, her pain more visible than ever on her face. “Oh Phillip, you didn’t.”_

_“Please Mother,” he implored, coming towards them. “I know you don’t understand who I am and the life I have chosen, but I believe change is coming. I believe that if you and Father can accept us, accept me as I am, then we can begin the change.”_

_A heavy silence hung, filled only by the steady ticking of the clock on the mantle. It was a silence densely filled with a thousand different moments, a hundred different decisions. There was endless hope and endless loss as his parents looked to each other._

_“I….I’m sorry son,” his father began, his tone strained and breathless as he looked to him. “I want…your mother and I, we simply can’t.”_

_Phillip felt the hope he’d been clinging to slip away from him and the emptiness pained him. He forced his body to release the breath he’d been holding and merely nodded._

_“Then I suppose there is truly nothing left to say.”_

_He began to turn, but his mother rushed forward, her hands grabbing at his arms._

_“Phillip, please, come home,” she begged. “Come home.”_

_The pain in his chest pressed harder, making it difficult to draw air. The part that had believed his parents would listen to him, would stand by him, would chose him, had been a part he had denied he needed, but now, knowing it was gone forever, left a bigger mark than he had been prepared to deal with._

_“Phillip,” his mother tried again, her hand on his arm gripping the fabric of his sleeve, her eyes pleading, heart breaking, “we love you.”_

_We love you._

_We love you._

_Those words wounded him. They did love him. He saw it in her face now, heard it in her voice. It was the familiar perfume that beckoned his recollections, the reminders of the times his mother had held him, or sung him to sleep, or the scent that clung to the letters she would write him when he was away at school. He felt the love she had for him wrap itself around his heart._

_And he finally understood._

_And his heart truly broke._

_“I know you do mother,” he said quietly, resignedly. “But you hate her more.”_

_It had been as if he’d slapped her. Her eyes grew wide, shocked, then guilty._

_Her hand slipped from his arm, falling like a dead weight against her body._

_The silence that filled the room now was a shadow of the one before, because now Phillip knew the truth, and as his parents were coming to realize it._

_And they had no defense against it._

_He turned and left, leaving behind the last vestige of the life he’d called home for such a significant portion of his time on earth._

_He left and the loss began to creep into his soul, like the black, choking smoke of a world on fire. It clouded his mind, invaded his thoughts, and smothered out reason._

_So he did the only thing he could think to do to put the fire out._

_He got rip-roaring drunk._

His head was pounding.

His mouth tasted sour.

There was throbbing in his jaw and lip.

He groaned as his entire body ached.

He forced an eye open, the sunlight blinding him. It took a few more tries, but his eyes eventually were able to handle the white light filling the bedroom.

He felt disconnected from the world, unsure of the time, the day, how he got there.

“You awake?”

He winced as the question reverberated in his head, but he looked to the figure standing in the door.

“Anne?” he croaked stupidly. “Wh— what happened?”

Her face remained blank, her lips tightly pressed together. “Come downstairs,” she commanded. “I’ve got a bath for you.”

Phillip had no desire to get out of bed.

“I’m not asking,” she threw over her shoulder as she turned to head back downstairs, and Phillip knew he was in trouble.

He fought the instinct to bury his head back into the pillow and sleep away the rest of his day, or life—at this point he didn’t car which—and with more moaning and groaning than he’d be willing to admit, he pulled himself upright, fought the wave of nausea that attacked, and clung to the bed frame to find his footing.

He realized he was in his undershirt and tuxedo pants.

The previous night began to slip back into place.

He ignored it and focused on moving his legs, making his way slowly down to where his wife waited.

As he entered the kitchen he saw Anne pouring a pot of boiling water into the bronze tin tub. The fire in the potbelly stove burned warm and he watched the steam rise up from where the heated water made contact with the cool.

It took a lot of work to pump enough buckets of water to fill the small tub, and then the time and effort it took to get the a few pots of the water boiling hot to combat the cold of the pump water, so they usually did the work together and usually on Sundays after the long weekend of shows.

At his questioning look she shrugged. “You need a bath,” she said by way of explanation, and, he supposed, the kindest way possible to stay he smelled awful.

“But I’m going first,” she told him. “I didn’t do all this work and not get a bath too so sit down and eat your food.”

He saw the plate of toast and cup of coffee waiting for him and his stomach protested, but he dutifully made his way to the small table by the window. She’d pulled the curtains closed and the sunlight didn’t quite blind him and he sat and nibbled at the bread while he watched her undress.

She’d pinned up her hair because she preferred washing it under the pump, claiming it was easier to get the soap out, and her tall, slim figure slipped easily into the warm water. He was calmed by the hypnotic motions of the wash cloth sliding along her skin, the soap making her glisten. The subtle rosy sent of the soap filled the room and he found himself relaxing.

Once he’d gotten some food in he found his stomach settling. He’d finished the toast and was left sipping the coffee, the bitter taste easily combatting the stale alcohol.

“W.D. brought you home,” Anne said suddenly, the sound of the water trickling as she continued to wash.

The cup at Phillip’s lips paused as he considered her words. “I’ll have to thank him for his help,” he finally offered before taking another sip.

“Your shirt was ruined. There was nothing I could do, and your tails are gone.”

Her tone had stayed quiet, almost conversational, but Phillip could sense the underlining emotion, the carefully contained rebuke.

“I’m sure—”

“I did my best with your lip,” she spoke over him, “but there wasn’t much I could do for the bruise on your jaw. We still have that cream from the hospital for your burns but it didn’t seem like it was a smart idea to put that on your lip and I don’t think it works on bruises so I just used some cold water.”

“Anne—” he tried again.

“Of course you were so drunk it didn’t seem to matter what I did. I don’t think you felt anything. Thank goodness W.D. was able to get you up to the bed. I doubt I could have moved you on my own.”

“Anne—”

“What?”

She’d stopped her task of cleaning, turning abruptly to face him, the sound of water slushing against the tub bring his eyes up, her face hard.

“What?” she asked again.

“I’m sorry.”

His offering hung between them and of course it wasn’t enough, but it was all he had right now.

She pressed her lips tightly together, seeming to dam the rest of her words. Instead she shook her head, then moving to stand, reached out for the towel she’d left warming by the stove.

Phillip scrambled to his feet, grabbing the cloth up first, and, wrapping it around her soaking body, helped her from the tub.

He held her there for a moment, his arms folding her to him. He could feel the warmth of the water begin to seep into his shirt, her scent filling his body and he suddenly felt weary. His head fell to her shoulder and they stood together, breathing.

Eventually he felt her press a small kiss to his neck.

“Alright,” she said quietly, “Come on now, before the water gets cold.”

With a deep sigh, he let his arms fall then obediently stepped back and began undressing.

Anne quickly toweled off and with a shiver pulled on her dressing robe before positioning herself by the fire.

Phillip couldn’t help the groan as he lowered his stiff, aching body into the water. She’d left the soap in there for him and he began to wash. The feeling of the grime and dirt being banished from his body had an immediate effect on his mood. It was freeing to begin the process of cleansing away the night before.

He’d been so focused he’d not noticed Anne moving until she knelt next to him with the old pitcher in her hands. At her questioning look he nodded, and she scooped up some water from the tub, and once he’d leaned forward some, poured it over his head, wetting his hair.

He’d grabbed the soap and made to begin, when he felt her hand reach out and take the bar from him. She worked it between her fingers, allowing them to be caked with the foam, before moving her hands to his hair.

Her fingers massaged their way through the thick strands, and Phillip nearly whimpered. The pounding in his head began to subside some and his shoulders relaxed. She was done much too soon, and after pouring a few more pitchers of water over him, she pronounced him clean.

Before she could move away, his hand reached out and grabbed hers keeping her there. He playfully flung his hair back, sending droplets of water flying in all directions, and Anne, as he expected, squealed.

“Oh you!” she scolded and again made to move, but his grip tightened some, just enough to be a question, not a demand. She could easily pull away if she chose.

When she stayed, looking at him, her face growing serious, he began, “Thank you. Thank you for taking care of me. I am…I know it’s not enough to simply say it, but I am sorry for last night. For all of last night.”

She said nothing, seeming to wait.

“I wanted last night to be special, and after what happened I acted…badly.”

When still she said nothing, he asked, “Anne?”

“Are you going to tell me what happened? What really happened?” she finally said.

His hand slipped from hers as his head dropped.

“I went to see my parents.”

He’d not seen her reaction but he knew the look he was getting. He knew her brow had gone up in surprise, knew the way her chin had pulled back, he could almost hear her confusion.

“I went because I needed to know if there was any chance they would accept us.”

“Phillip,” she breathed, and the sadness in her voice broke him.

He wanted her to know, and his head came up, blue eyes meeting brown. “I needed them to understand. I love you Anne. I love you so much that I don’t remember how I ever breathed before knowing you. You’ve filled my life with such joy that I no longer have to worry about each step forward because I’ve finally stepped out of the fog and can see the road ahead. I’m not wondering around alone, I have you by my side and I feel alive. And I’m so afraid….I’m so afr—so a—”

His words died as the emotions of the last day broke free. His life had been filled with hours of waiting, hours of loneliness, hours of longing for love and affection, and in the tiny kitchen of their home, being clean, being warm, being safe, being loved, it scared him even more.

Her arms came around him and it was her turn to hold him. Naked and vulnerable, the tears mixed with the water on his skin, soaking her dressing gown but still she held him.

He’d not told her what his parents had said, he’d not told her the alcohol he’d consumed to drown his sadness, he’d not told her the fight he’d started because he was so angry at it all, a fight he’d known he’d never win against another small-minded person at the bar because he’d welcomed the pain, the punishment of each punch.

He’d not told her, but she knew.

“Come on,” she said, once he’d calmed, slumping even further into her embrace. “We’ve time for a nap before the show tonight and we both need it.”

He felt exhausted and Anne truly had to help him stand and dry off. She’d wrapped him in his own dressing gown, one she’d also had warming by the fire, and gently tugged him along behind her.

“Marry me Anne,” he said, “Marry me for real, in front of a witnesses, and where the law has to recognize us.”

She turned to him at the top of the stairs, her eyes bright, glassy, as if she’d been holding back tears.

“Don’t you ask that now Phillip Carlyle. Not after the night you’ve put me through. Not after the night you’ve put yourself through. Now, I am your wife. No law or persons can say otherwise. I love you, I love you even when you try my patience, or when you break my heart. I love you. I am not leaving. And the next time you ask me to marry you will be when I know you aren’t asking because you’re afraid I’m going to leave you like your parents. I don’t know what the universe means by having me fall in love with a wealthy white man, but fall in love I did. You are a part of me as much as my own soul. And when I know you aren’t asking because you think I’m like them, because you think one day I can turn my back on you, then you can ask me again. But don’t you think you aren’t my husband because we don’t have a slip of paper.”

With that she turned again, pulling him along into their bedroom.

She quickly dropped her dressing gown, and slid under the covers, and Phillip said nothing as he followed suit. As soon as he was laying down, she moved her body tightly against his, her back pressing into his side and she wrapped herself around his arm, her head against his shoulder.

Her words played again and again, her accusation weighing on his mind, as he stared up at the ceiling.

“Stop thinkin’ so much,” she said. “You need to rest.”

He let go of the breath he’d been holding, and turning more fully into her, obeyed her command, and let sleep take him.

 


	4. The Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What is life, when wanting love? Night without a morning; love's the cloudless summer sun, nature gay adorning."
> 
> \--Robert Burton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter of this particular story. I have a sequel of sorts, or perhaps just a continuation of this particular narrative, in mind if time permits (and if there is any interest). 
> 
> Thank you again for all the kind comments and messages. It has been incredible. I do love this movie and these two are special and it's been so much fun exploring their life together, and I am so grateful to all of you for your encouragement to continue and I hope this last chapter meets expectation.
> 
> Love,  
> Piper

The last time he asked her to marry him, he didn’t have to ask at all.

_“How do you do it?”_

_Charity Barnum looked up from the face of an unconscious Phillip Carlyle—the bruised, swollen face of the handsome boy looking so young—allowing her gaze to fall on the distressed young girl who sat opposite._

_“How do I do what?”_

_Anne Wheeler, looking no less worried since Phillip had awoken, moved her glassy eyes from the man who had turned her life upside down to the older woman._

_“How do you survive loving a man who believes himself invincible?”_

_Charity gave a humorless smile, a nod to understanding the depth of her question._

_“You become the tether that keeps him safe,” she answered simply._

_Anne let out a breath, her tongue moving to lick her dry lips._

_“And you realize that it’s his love for you that gives him the motivation…that makes him believe he can do anything,” Charity continued. “It’s because he loves you so much that he is willing to risk everything.”_

_For a moment both women could see the fire and smoke behind silhouettes._

_Anne’s hand slid along the rough white sheet, her fingers coming to wrap around the sleeping boy’s._

_“Do you ever regret it?”_

_“Regret it?”_

_“The life you gave up to be with him?”_

_Charity’s eyebrow went up, wondering why she hadn’t been expecting such a question._

_Anne’s eyes had fallen to the bed, and to Charity she looked like a young woman in desperate need of her mother—a feeling Charity understood,_

_“No,” she answered. “No. There were days when I was sad, days when I missed my family. Some days more than others. When Caroline was born all I wanted was my mother. I wanted her to be with me, to help me. I was scared and had no one to talk to about what was happening. And then I wanted her to meet her granddaughter. And it made me sad.”_

_Anne nodded._

_“But I’ve never regretted the choice I made.”_

_Anne still refused to look at her._

_“Anne,” Charity said, her voice the same she’d use to ensure her daughters were listening, and, as expected, the other woman looked up. “I never regretted the choice I made.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Because the happiness I have now will forever eclipse any sadness.”_

_Anne grew quiet, contemplative._

_“Do you love him? Because I don’t think there’s any question about how he feels for you,” Charity offered, a hint of wryness in her voice._

_Anne pressed her lips together, her throat working hard, her brow wrinkling. It was an attempt to keep feelings and emotions held hostage, to keep them from bleeding out her._

_She finally cleared her throat and managed, “I love him.”_

_She grew silent again and Charity waited. It was quiet in the hospital. The street lamps had been lit outside and the staff was moving slowly, helping prepare the other patients for another long night. Charity knew that soon they would insist they leave the hospital. No visitors were allowed to stay. Everyone at the circus had taken turns sitting with Anne during the evening, then ensure she got some dinner before making sure she made it home safely._

_It’s what Phillip would have wanted._

_Charity had happily taken her turn tonight. Phillip had been awake from a bit of it, until a coughing fit left him exhausted and weak._

_She had watched as Anne had helped him sit up, holding him there with her own weight, rubbing his chest, then grabbing the bowl so he could spit out the black sludge that was working its way out of his lungs. Charity had wanted to get him a drink of water but Anne had waved her off._

_“He needs to get it out,” she’d explained simply._

_After several minutes of Phillip struggle to force the air in and out of his lungs, he finally collapsed against the bed, nearly knocking Anne over, a feeble, “sorry,” slipping free as he looked at her._

_She shushed him, motioning for the rag near his bed._

_Charity dampened it, then handed it to her, and watched as she gently wiped his reddened face clean._

_“Now he can have water,” she said softly, helping him hold his head up long enough for Charity to bring the glass to his lips._

_Phillip had drunk the water greedily, then soon had fallen into a desperate sleep._

_And the two women had watched over him for the last two hours, with mostly Charity filling the silence, but now it was Anne’s turn._

_“You need to get it out,” Charity prompted gently._

_Anne’s gaze flew to hers and Charity knew her words had found purchase._

_“I love him,” Anne said more confidently. “I’ve love him for longer than I’ve allowed myself to believe it. I feel…” she hesitated. “It sounds ridiculous but I feel like I’ve loved him my whole life. I just…I don’t think he understands. I don’t think he understands what it means to be with me, to let me love him.”_

_Charity gave a sad, understanding smile._

_“And I think that if I truly loved him, loved him in an unselfish way, I’d leave. I wouldn’t hold him to me.”_

_“Oh Anne,” Charity breathed, her heart breaking at the look of pure desolation in the other woman’s eyes. She reached for her free hand, holding her tightly.  “I wish I could tell you that you’re wrong, but he probably doesn’t understand. His head is probably filled with the life he wants and the life he imagines, and he will probably struggle when things aren’t as simple as he believes and that struggle will come because he’ll believe he’s disappointing you and himself.”_

_Charity could see the weight of the last three days bearing down on the woman, the fear, the loss, the uncertainty, the guilty, and she could see the cracks beginning to spread._

_“He loves you Anne. He’s terrible at hiding it, and even if he weren’t, I saw him run into that burning building for you. There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation. He believed you were in danger and his body, his soul, went after you. And that’s where you start. You start with love, that leads to commitment, which motivates hard work, and then, when all those things aren’t enough—because there will be a time when those things aren’t enough—you add forgiveness. You and I know it won’t be easy, and he will soon.”_

_Despite her attempts to keep her aching inside, a tear manage to escape and make its way down Anne’s cheek and with broken breath she whispered, “I’m afraid when he does, he’ll want to leave.”_

_It was Charity’s turn to press her lips together, a moment of skepticism. “Do you truly believe that? Do you believe he would leave you when things get hard?”_

_Anne eyes moved to watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, her own breathing soon mimicking his, until they were breathing together._

_“No. I don’t.”_

_“Me neither,” Charity agreed._

_“But will he regret it?”_

_“I can’t answer that,” the older woman said honestly. “I know I never have. I don’t think he will and I believe you don’t think he will either. You’re just scared and that’s alright. You don’t have to rush things. Take your time, fall in love again and again, fight over things, laugh together, cry together, solve problems together, and when the time comes, when you have fully discovered the answer for yourself, you’ll know what to do."_

 

The light of late morning sun filling the room, casting it’s yellow white light into the corners, driving the last of night’s shade from the corners, woke her. The heat of the summer morning was growing, indicating another sweltering day, and with a groan Anne kicked the blanket off her, thankful for the thin material of her chemise.

She lay for a little while, floating between sleep and wakefulness, her eyes still heavy with slumber.  They had gotten home late following the last show. The crowd had been lively, as it usually was on Friday nights, and Phillip had worked the audience, and it had been impossible to resist continuing the performance. It meant late nights, but it was what the circus performers loved about their job. It was those nights when the crowd filled the tent with thunderous applause, begging for more, that filled Anne with hope for the future.

With a sigh she finally allowed her eyes to peek open, the sounds of the city floating through the window, making it harder to ignore, and she knew there was no chance of returning to sleep. Her husband, however, clearly had no issue sleeping through the hubbub.

She gave a small smile, remembering how they’d returned home, exhausted but still so full of enthusiasm. They’d stayed up late, talking over a plate of cheese and crusty bread and, as a summer treat, slices of oranges. And, as she couldn’t resist the boyish grin and bright eyes, she’d slid into his lap, savoring the sweet citrus that lingered on his lips.

What had followed had been exhilarating and pleasurable. Her body wrapped tightly around his as they clung to each other, reveling in an ever growing connection, driving each other closer to release.

Watching him now, his hair having been broken free from its normally carefully pomade coif by her eager fingers last night, now poked in all different directions. She did like to tease him about the effort he put in his daily grooming, but she supposed it was how wealthy people lived, and she had to admit, as much as she loved being the only one to see him so disheveled, she did appreciate the respect he commanded when he looked so fancy. But here, in the privacy of their home, in the intimacies of their bedroom, with his wild hair and light snores, he was all hers.  

Her eyes fell to the pale line on his side, the slowly fading scar left from the night of the fire. Her hand slid across the cool sheets, her finger gently tracing along the healed wound.

Phillip made a sound deep in his chest before his hand came up and swatted at hers.

She couldn’t help the chuckle, watching him struggle to wakefulness.

She pressed against his side a little firmer, earning another swat, before her laughter finally brought his eyes open.

“What?” was all he could manage, a frown firmly in place, as his mind slowly realized it was awake.

Anne smiled at him, sliding her hand up his naked chest, bringing her body to rest on his.

“No,” he said, before grabbing her and tugging her across his body, rolling them both over and tucking her against him.

She couldn’t see his face but she knew he was already going back to sleep.  She began squirming and he groaned, tightening his hold.

“No. It’s too early.”

“Phillip it has to be close to noon, it’s not early.”

“It is for us,” he whined into her hair.

She laughed again with a rather unladylike snort, enjoying his petulance.

He made no comment, rather choosing to tuck his nose against her neck, and she couldn’t resist the feeling of being held by him, momentarily giving in. Soon she felt his breathing even out and knew he’d dozed off.

She lay there, knowing he’d soon awaken, and not quite willing to steal the last moments of his dreams. She lay there and simply breathed him in, her chest soon rising and falling with his. Her mind drifted through the last few months of their time together, and she thought of her childhood, of a mother who had always been looking over her shoulder and a father who had worked hard to earn enough to feed his family but never been able to work hard enough to earn the respect of white people he’d worked for. She thought of W.D. and the sacrifices he’d made to ensure they were both safe and fed, filling a void left too soon.

She knew part of her, a part she had refused to face, the last part of her resistance, wondered if she was betraying them all.

It wasn’t done.

Black people and white people. They didn’t fall in love.

They didn’t marry—though she knew Phillip would argue with her.

He’d already been sure to remind her of Fredrick Douglas’ second marriage.

“A black man and a white woman,” he’d said pointedly.

She’d then pointed out the controversy surrounding the marriage.

He’d shrugged. “All marriages require work.”

But that had been the end of it. He’d respected her edict on the subject.

She thought on the number of times she’d been called a whore as they walked down the street together, or the number of times someone had spit at them or called them disgusting.

She’d lost count on the number of disgruntled faces that no one bothered to hide and how hard Phillip fought to hide the hurt.

And then she thought of Phillip surprising her with a bottle of lavender scent. She thought of the times he’d pumped the water so she could wash her hair. She thought of the mornings they’d lingered in bed. She thought of the afternoon trips to shop for eggs and butter and cream, and nights spent by the fire taking turns reading to each other.

He’d bought a bike a few weeks ago, and she’d fallen in love with sitting on the handle bars as they sped down a hill, the wind blowing in her face as she fully trusted him, squealing with the thrill as he laughed his deep, rumbling laugh.

The trust he had in her as she swung so high above the ground each night, never asking her to stop, never telling her to be careful, simply trusting in her skill and talent, had made her feel proud.

She thought of the still tenuous relationship between W.D. and her husband. It had meant a lot to her, and she knew it had meant a lot to her brother, when Phillip had gone to him, apologizing and thanking him for his help the night Phillip had gotten too drunk to find his way home. It had meant something to see a white man humbling himself.

She thought of the fight they had over the curtains, and how it really turned into a fight about money. He wanted to spoil her and she was too afraid of poverty to be comfortable accepting things that she felt were frivolous. He'd lost his patience, she'd lost temper. They'd both lost a good night's sleep.

And sometimes they just flat out didn’t understand each other.

It was hard. It was incredibly hard.

But here she was. Here in the spot that she knew was the one spot she never wanted to be away from.

His arms.

She thought about the future.  She knew he was her forever.

She also knew there were changes coming their way.  She had begun suspecting, but in her heart she knew. She knew what their love had created. It was no surprise, something rather expected actually.

And she was terrified.

But she was also completely and utterly and deliciously overjoyed.

She knew then it wasn’t a betrayal.

It was just love.

It was life.

The heat in the room was beginning to stifle her, and she could feel her skin growing damp where they were pressed so tightly together. She pushed hard against him, welcoming the rush of cool air as he rolled away from her onto his back.

Phillip forced out a sigh of resignation, accepting that his wife was now ready for him to wake.

“Phillip?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you happy?”

His eyes flew open at her question. “What?”

“Are you happy?” she repeated, sitting up and turning to look down at him.

He sat up, his still sleepy eyes coming to meet hers.

“Am I happy?” he parroted. “With what?”

Anne nearly rolled her eyes. “With us, with me, with life, with…with the circus…I don’t know, just are you happy?”

He frowned at her in concern. “Anne, don’t you know? I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”

She nodded, but it seemed he wasn’t done.

“Anne I’m happy but that’s not…it’s not all that I am.”

It was her turn to frown, her brow lowering in confusion.

“What else are you?”

He gave his head a little shake, seeming to clear the last of the sleep from body. “I’m excited, I’m content. I look forward to every day. I’ve found purpose. I’m in love, so deeply and completely in love, that if I lost everything tomorrow I’d be fine, unless I lost you. I love my job, and my friends, and this home we’ve made, but none of those things define who I am, none of those things are a part of me the way you are. I am happy Anne, but I’m also sad about some things, angry about others, frustrated and sometimes even confused. And I get to be all of those things with you.”

He reached for her hand, his fingers rubbing against the ring on her finger.

“Do you understand what I mean?”

She swallowed hard, her head nodding. “Yes.”

He nodded back, offering a smile in return. “Good.”

He made to move but she stopped him.

“No, I mean Yes.”

His eyebrows went up in question. “Yes…?”

She brought her hands up to his face, holding him still. “I mean _yes_.”

He blinked at her for a moment and she watched as his mind worked to understand.

Then she saw it.

The moment the pieces fit together.

“Wait…” he began, “wait…you don’t, I mean, you don’t mean yes as in…” he dropped his chin down, his gaze growing intent, “ _yes?”_

She laughed and he launched himself forward, pinning her to the bed.

“Say it,” he insisted.

She pursed her lips. “Say what?”

He lightly pinched her side, making her shriek.

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

His fingers dug into her side again, and her shriek mixed with indignant laughter. “Stop!”

“Say it.”

He continued tickling her, keeping her where she was even as she kicked and squealed and laughed.

“Say it.”

“Yes!” She shouted. “Yes, I will marry you!”

And Phillip’s laughter mixed with hers, a pure joyous sound slipping through the thin curtains and mixing with the hustle and bustle of the city, until he couldn’t stand it any longer and brought his lips to hers.

It was a kiss that they’d shared before; a kiss full of passion and love and respect and desire and promise, but this time it held an intensity of relief, a feeling of more than just need but of acceptance and confidence and two souls who found each other among a tumultuous past, an unforgiving present and an uncertain future, because time had no place in their eternity.

“Phillip,” Anne whispered sometime later, her voice nearly shaking with barely contained emotion. “I have something to tell you.”

 

The end.

 


End file.
